My Story Of Emotions
by darkatdusk
Summary: This isn't real, what you read about him, in the papers. He isn't dead, he isn't a fake. But I have to live my life, with everyone thinking he is.
1. Dealing with emotion

I woke. The sky was dark, shadows played on the wall. I could see him, when I closed my eyes. Why had I been dragged away? Just why, in general. The silence of the house was painful.

...

I stood at the door, watching her. She was overwhelmed; there was so much stuff, none of it anything to do with her. Most of it was junk, yet it meant more than anything in the world. They were HIS things. Memories, pass times, things that should have been left alone. Everything should have been normal. It wasn't. I almost left; I didn't want to go in. But I had to.

I held my breath, and entered. I didn't say anything, just turned to the desk, and began. Old papers from old cases, photos, notebooks, books, and £50, the contents of the first draw. At the bottom, half a packet of cigarettes. I bit my lip, it didn't feel right. They weren't my things, what would he want?

Mrs Hudson had been keeping quiet. Understanding I was not in the mood to talk. So she made me jump by speaking.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No thanks, I, I was just leaving." I shut the draw.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure." I hurried out the room. I couldn't stand it.

I shut the front door, facing the street. I leaned against it. How many times had he touched it, this door? How many times has he stood in this spot? A Jag crawled to the curb in front of me. No secrets this time, no lure and confusion. He stepped straight out. Mycroft Holmes. I nodded to him.

"How is it in there?" he asked.

"Terrible."

"Im so sorry john, I..."

"Don't, Mycroft, just don't." I snapped, and then I turned away and began walking.

I walked for a while, just around. Some people would look at me, starring. Some would glance quickly away. Others would gasp, whisper to themselves or others. In new stands, papers were riddled with his stories. A fraud, a scandal, a fake, a criminal, a danger. These were the scars, the scars of him. Not of Sherlock, of Moriarty. He caused them. Sherlock was real; Moriarty never put doubt in my mind. But the fact still remained, he was dead. I hated that word, that phrase. It didn't belong. I sat on the curb, thinking. Nothing made sense, or did it make too much sense? I felt eyes on me, but I could see no one. He wasn't dead, he had to be. I saw it, the blood, and the stillness. But I could sense him still, no, I missed him.

...

_He watched his old friend. _


	2. Interest

**Hope the first chapter got you attention, **

**Please read on, and don't be afraid to review .**

Sleep wouldn't come, again. I didn't think about it. I just lay, starred at the ceiling. My mind was blank, I felt nothing. When I closed my eyes, I saw it. I flicked my eyes back open, unable to get rid of the images in my mind. I tried over and over, trying to sleep. To find peace and silence.

...

_He lay awake. Unable to sleep, there was too much on his mind. He was no one, moving every day, disguised. All the lies, the tricks and the misconceptions. He had done the right thing, hadn't he? He saved his friends, and now he was what they wanted. He was no one. He was off the radar, but they couldn't know. _

_ ..._

The next morning, I realised I had no plans. I had no clue what to do. I had a small flat, a few blocks down from the old one. People had mixed views of me; either I was a villain or a harmless idiot. I didn't want to do anything; I wanted it how it was. I decided to go for a walk.

"Hi, oh my gosh, your John Watson." The voice took me by surprise.

"Erm, yes. Who are you?" I focused on the person in front of me. A woman, early thirties? Pen ink on her hand, the ink from pressing against printed writing. A journalist? An editor or boss, as she wore a suit. Gosh, I'd been spending too much time around Sherlock.

"Im Sarah Heatric, I work for The Times." I was right.

"Look, im not interested in speaking to the press at the moment."

"Oh no, im not asking for that. Have you read The Times lately?"

"No, not since..." I couldn't say it.

"Well there have been people asking for you."

"What?"

"You know, missing relatives, ghosts, mysterious bones, the whole lot." She paused so I could take it in "with Sherlock a fake, everyone knows you must have been the smart one. People want you to help them, John."

"Sherlock isn't a fake!" I didn't know why I said isn't, not wasn't.

"Well, take a look at The Times, and take my card." She handed me the card "I have to go, good luck, John. Get in touch."

With that she walked away, heading off to her job. I put the card in my pocket. What had she meant by good luck? I decided to go buy The Times. Just out of interest.

There were no stories on Sherlock today. Although there was one about James Moriarty, now known as Richard Brooke. In the back was the space for advertising and letters. Three were to me. Cases, like the old times. But I couldn't do it alone, could I? It wasn't right; he had always been my partner. I turned away from that page, to the crossword. I scanned the questions, seeing how many I knew. The first clue was very odd. It said simply, 'just look'. I starred harder at the first few clues. The second was 'on the left', then I saw it. The first letter of the first 4 clues. J, O, H and N, john. Was it luck, my imagination? I shut the paper, took the last pages, the crossword and the letters. Then I placed the paper in the bin.

When I got home, I placed the pages from the paper into a draw in my desk. I took out the business card from my other pocket. It didn't look very official, but I tried the number anyway.

"Hello, George Michaels, The Times news editor."

"Hi, im looking for Sarah Heatric."

"Who?"

"She works for you..I met her in the street."

"Im sorry I don't know anyone by that name." He paused "what's your name?"

"John Watson."

"The John Watson?"

"yes." I sighed.

"Well I can assure you that I can help you with anything I can."

"Who made the crossword from today's paper?" worth a shot.

"I don't know, it was an anonymous entry this week."

"Oh, well thanks anyway. So you defiantly don't know a Sarah Heatric?"

"No, im sorry I couldn't be more help."

"Ok, well goodbye."

"Goodbye john, stay in touch." I put the phone down. So Sarah hadn't been a journalist, at least, not for the times. So who was she? How had she known who I was, or that there were messages to me in The Times? Maybe she was just a fan, wanting something to talk to me about. Maybe she was from another paper, wanting a story. I checked the business card again, yes, an email. I pressed the spacebar on the keyboard and the computer came to life.

I thought for a while about what to type. In the end, I went with a simple 'hi' and then JW. Thinking back, I wonder how different my life would be if I had sent something else.

...

_New room, new scenery. Nothing was right, because it wasn't the same. But it was ok, it was what had to happen. He needed stimulant, he was so bored. He knew he shouldn't. He wouldn't have wanted him to. But it was sooo boring, he had nothing to do! He decided to walk, he was far from the old place, so he felt safe. Although of course he put on glasses, a hat, and different clothes. He walked down the road, and turned into the corner shop, after finding £10 in his pocket. A box of cigarettes purchased, he continued to walk. _

...

When I got back from shopping, there was an email alert on the computer. It was 'Sarah'

Hi,

How are you?

SH

Well, someone was real. Was it Sarah? SH, Sarah Heatric, that fit. So maybe she was real, just lied about the times. Probably a fan, getting her email to me, or she's interested in the truth about Sherlock.

Who do you really work for?

JW

Never mind that.

SH

What do you want from me?

JW

Just talk, tell me what you're doing, I can help you.

SH

Help me with what?

JW

Anything.

SH

Ok, should I respond to the people in The Times?

JW

Yes, it will be good for you.

SH

I turned from the computer. Well, she was defiantly real, although seemed to be hiding who she really was and who she worked for. Well, it was someone to talk to. She'd seemed real enough when we met.


	3. Intuitive

I stood at the window. Starring at the street ahead, people drove and walked, normal life. Would I have it again? A jag pulled up in front of my building, oh great, I thought. A man walked out, collar high, a hat, didn't want to be seen. A minute later Mycroft stood in my hallway.

"Mycroft, what are you doing here?" I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.

"He isn't dead john."

"I want to believe that, I think I do believe it, but you saying it doesn't make it anymore true."

"I, I want to find him." For once he looked like he could really feel emotions.

"Don't, just don't." I looked at him, sighed "Get out Mycroft."

"Ok john." that had been the strangest conversation with Mycroft Holmes. He controlled most of Britain, yet he had seemed so small. Desperate, and unwilling to show force. Was he grieving? Or just guilty that what he told Moriarty had helped him kill Sherlock?

I went down to the shop, picked up the paper. The front page was a story on 'Richard Brooke', the media seems to have moved on from the fake Sherlock. They now realised something, where was Richard Brooke? No one had seen him, he hadn't made and appearance, and it had now been two weeks. I also didn't know what had happened to Sherlock's old enemy. Well, he's James Moriarty, he's smart. Maybe he's hiding, until the media have moved on. But that didn't seem to make sense; he was too smug to hide. Or was he? I couldn't think of any other explanation. The paper talked of secret hid outs, murder and witness protection.

Thinking of the mystery took me to another thought. Who was Sarah Heatric? I decided to quiz her again, as by now I was home.

Who are you?  
>JW<p>

A fan, I would like to say a friend.  
>SH<p>

Why would you say that?  
>JW<p>

Because I want to help you, to help you get yourself back.

SH

How can you do that?  
>JW<p>

Well, in whatever way you like. Have you had a look at any of the cases from the paper?

SH

Yeah, missing granny, movement in an empty house at night, pretty basic stuff.

JW

Choose one and solve it.  
>SH<p>

I, I don't think I can.  
>JW<p>

You can, just do it. You are ready.  
>SH<p>

I looked down at the paper in my hand, the cases. Juliet Munty. Reported that her mum had gone missing, police couldn't do anything as the pair didn't meet much, and lived in different houses. The grannies house looked pretty empty, so the police had said she had probably moved or gone on holiday. The letter ended with, Tyler Opel, missing since Thursday morning, please help. Well maybe I should try, for Sherlock, and Sarah Heatric. Tomorrow, I decided, tomorrow.

Mycroft sat in his office, every paper published in the last week lay on his desk. He needed a clue, something that would link the gun to anything that could have happened. At the hospital, on the roof, he had found the gun. He had told no one, slipped it with him before anyone noticed. Under the radar, he got it screened, but there wasn't a trace of anything on it. Somehow, it was linked, he just didn't know how. Had James/Richard shot Sherlock? Had someone else? Then pushed him from the building, and paid for the gun shot to be left out of the autopsy?

"Damn! I need Sherlock, he would be good at this!" he tossed the paper he was holding towards the bin. A shadow passed the crack in the door, or did it?

The next morning, I looked up Juliet Munty in the phone book, and dialled.

"Hello. Juliet Munty." Simple.

"Hi, it's John Watson." I wasn't really sure what to say.

"Oh, oh my gosh, well, excellent." She said nothing.

"So is your mother still missing?"

"Yes and the police are still doing nothing."

"Ok, I will come right down; can I have your addressee?"

I wrote what she told me into a blank note book. After that I hung up. My first solo case, how was I going to do this?

I climbed into the car and programmed the addressee into the sat nav. I thought about how many cases I've headed to in this car, with Sherlock next to me. Knowing so much before we had even got there. I couldn't think like him, I could never be him. I couldn't do this, but I couldn't turn back now.

...

A knock at the door. A woman stood, dressed in a black suite. He didn't know who she was, or what she wanted.

"Hi, im looking for Mycroft Holmes."

"That would be me." He continued working.

"Im Selene Hentri, im a private investigator. I don't want your money, I want to help you."

"How did you even know...?" she interrupted him.

"Never mind that." She paused "I can help you find out the truth about Sherlock, tell me what you know." He sighed, and looked at her.

"Can I trust you?"

"Of course." She handed him a business card. A name, a number, an email, simple.

"Ok, well, there was a gun, on the roof. It was clean, but I know it was involved. Also, there is defiantly no sigh or Richard Brooke or James Moriarty."

"You also believe Sherlock is alive?"

"I've known him longer than anyone. He's stuck up, smart ass and stubborn. He would never kill himself."

"Ok, well I will get back to you in a few days. Feel free to contact me." She smiled.

"If I see this in any of the papers I will hunt you down and make sure you do not make a profit from this." He looked at her sternly.

"Oh don't worry, im not a journalist or a snitch."

Mycroft watched her go, why had he told her everything? Was she really going to investigate for him, for free?

...

_He knew she was watching. She thought she was a lot smarter than she was, although she had done well. Whoever she was. _


	4. Determination

"Hi, nice to meet you, im Juliet Munty." I shook her hand.

"John Watson." She smiled "so tell me about your mother."

We were sat in Juliet's front room. There were only two arm chairs, in a faded, floral design. A small, dark wood coffee table sat in between us. The walls were painted a soft pink; the carpet may have once been turquoise. A bay window sat in front of us, wooden panels, with black water stains. The only thing that stood out in the room was the painting; five pop arts lined the walls. Three were prints, the other looked like a photograph, and the last almost looked original.

"Well, she's a quiet woman. She worked as a teacher, before she retired, and loved it. She never has any problems, she's always happy. That's why I know she wouldn't just leave; besides, she loved her house and this place. She has some friends down at the community centre, and likes living near to me."

"But you didn't see each other often?"

"No, well I'm quite busy. I have two year old twins, and a baby. They're upstairs with my husband. I wish I had gone to see her more, maybe I could have prevented whatever has happened."

"So did your mother ever come here?"

"A few times, but she doesn't like driving, and walking to here is hard for her." Juliet looked nervous, glancing around.

"Ok, thank you. I will tell you if something develops. Don't leave town."

"Of course not, thank you." for a second I saw something in her eyes, relief?

I left and sat in the car. What should I do next? That was easy, go see the police. I looked at the map, found the closest police station, turned the ignition key.

...

_He left the tie outside the apartment. It was the one he had been wearing yesterday, nothing special. But still, it was necessary. For a moment, he thought that maybe it wasn't time. Were they ready? Well, they would have to be. _

...

Content after a meeting, Mycroft walked to his office. He tried not to think of his brother, tried to focus on the future. But Sherlock still tugged on his brain, something wasn't right. He approached his office, and something else wasn't right. There door was open half way. On the hall floor, a strange pattern of light, cast from the gap. Mycroft pushed open the door, and quickly darted inside.

"What, how did you keep getting in here?" he said in surprise, and starred at Selene Hentri.

"It's simple when you know how."

"Yes, so what do you want?"

"I don't want anything, it's what you want."

"Ok, so what do you have that I want. Surely you couldn't have found anything this quick." She opened her bag, and tossed him a wad of material. A tie.

"A tie? What has this got to do with me?" but then Mycroft looked at it. One of Sherlock's. No, he thought, but it was. He was sure of it. The smell, aftershave and cigarette smoke, and something that was just so, Sherlock.

"Convinced?" he didn't answer her question.

"Where did you get this?" he needed her answers.

"An apartment building. Man who owns it said the guy rented it out for two days, paid in cash, and left this morning. Said he looked a little like the dead cop from the papers. Sherlock, of course."

"I, ok. Keep at it. We'll find him, or the truth, or something."

"Yes, I have no doubt." She smiled, and headed for the door.

"Who are you?" Mycroft asked.

"A friend." She said, and walked through the door.

Unable to think of anything else now, but his brother, Mycroft decided to head out himself. After battling with colleges and bodyguards insisting to go, he finally got out. He jumped into the jag alone. Not sure where he was going, not sure what he was going to do, but sure he was going to find some clues.

He started with the shops. If Sherlock was smoking, someone would remember him. Plus he had to buy food and other things, he was human after all. After going around most of London, Mycroft had worked out the pattern. Sherlock was zigzagging across the city, staying hidden, never anywhere to long. Following the most recent shop sighting, Mycroft began trying to find the apartment building Sherlock had last been staying in. asking each owner about a man looking like Sherlock, a tie by the door, and a woman in a black suit.

"Yeah, he was here. Early this morning, he left. Put the keys on the desk, with the money he owed, and left. Later I saw the tie at the door. I left it in case he came back. But a woman in a suit took it. Whatever, why?"

"Did the man say where he was from, what he was doing, anything?"

"Nah. He didn't have much baggage either. Two messenger bags, well one was a meant for a laptop by the looks of it."

"Did you see him doing anything? Did he stay inside the whole time?"

"Well, when he came he had a bag of shopping, so I never saw him at are restaurant. He came down a few times to have a smoke, but that's it. He never left, not that I know of anyway. Why? Have I done something wrong? Is he a terrorist or something?" the man was beginning to look worried.

"No, you have done nothing wrong. You have been very helpful." Mycroft left without another word. The owner was left starring at a wall, not sure what had just happened.

...

The station was small. Once in the hallway, there were only three doors. One lay open to a tiny kitchen, the other a waiting room, only big enough for a sofa and a small table. The third door led to another corridor. Four holding cells came first, two on each side. At the end of the corridor, was the main room. The layout was very odd; the building could not have been built for police. The main room was larger. Five desks, separated by a good amount of space, sat to the left. Straight ahead were two sofas, facing each other, with a coffee table in between. Two boards stood to the right. Alone in the space. Seven people were in the room, all busy. No one was expecting me. I had let myself in, and wondered how long until I was thrown back out. Standing by the boards, was a tall, strong looking man. He had dense brown hair, and was wearing a grey suite. As he wasn't in uniform, I guessed that he was in charge. I headed for him.

"Hello, Im John Watson, Im a private investigator." Sort of.

"Ah, the famous Watson, the real brains behind the partnership. It's a pleasure." He shook my hand. "My names Hansen. Darren Hansen. What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping to talk to the officer who dealt with the Tyler Opel case."

"Ah that, hardly a case, but all the same. I believe it was James who worked on that." He looked towards a small man with long hair. "James."

"Yes sir?"

"This man is John Watson. He would like to know about the Tyler Opel case, that was you right?"

"Yes sir." He looked to me "would you like to sit down?" he gestured to the sofas.

"sure." We took a sofa each, and began.

"What would you like to know?"

"Everything, tell me what you found out, and why you drew the conclusion that you did."

"Well her daughter, Juliet, reported her missing. I spoke to her, but she didn't seem reliable. Something about the way she answered the questions, and the flighty eyes."

"Yes I got that too." I stated, and then he continued.

"I deemed her lying, or mentally unstable, or whatever. That wasn't for me to deal with. No one else had said anything. Tyler's neighbours said they didn't know her. Said she didn't go out much, she thought she was too good for others. You see, she lives in a huge house, one of the biggest nearby. Apparently she's stuck up, because she's rich. So after that, no one else thinks she's missing, she has money. I guessed she went on holiday. Credit cards showed big spending, although didn't show where the money went. Her doctor said she was in good health, very good in fact. So I decided she's on holiday somewhere. As there is no one who would want to hurt her, and no indication anything has happened. Just a worried daughter."

"Hmm, ok, thank you. Are you sure there is nothing else?"

"No sir, nothing else." He was starting to look annoyed. I nodded to him and left the sofa area.

"Thank you for your time, I may come back."

"No problem. It was a pleasure meeting you."

...

_Only a few days now, he thought. His brother was very close._


	5. Realisation

Back at the office, Mycroft pinned a map of London to the wall. He then began to plot each sighting of Sherlock. The zigzag pattern was defiantly there and roughly even. The next area was mainly green, a park. At one edge, was a row of houses. Mycroft typed the road name into his computer, and there it was. Rybuckly hotel, described as a sub-standard building that should really be closed down.

Mycroft had also picked up a good portfolio of Sherlock's disguise. A typical Sherlock style, but not so much as to make it obvious. Long coats and dark colours, very Sherlock. But then ties, beanies and even shorts. Thinking back, Mycroft realised that the old flat had not been watched, so Sherlock could have snuck in and taken clothes. It sounded like mostly the ones he had been given as presents. With all the new information, Mycroft was confident, he could find his brother, and work out what was going on. Tomorrow was the day; he would meet his brother again.

...

The final stop for the day was Tyler Opel's house. The policeman was right, it was huge. There were gates at the front, and a large lawn, with neatly trimmed bushes. The house loomed behind a pit of gravel, big enough for an army of tanks. 6 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, and a kitchen the size of her daughter's ground floor, not bad. But that made me think, why had Tyler got so much, and Juliet so little? I peered into the window, and found myself looking into the sitting room. Leather sofa, coffee table, and a grand piano. The art she liked seems to be very different though, from her daughters. The paintings hung on Tyler's wall were paintings of scenes, forest, sea and fields.

...

_A knock on the door. He walked over to open it, this is it, he thought. The door slid slowly open, and he stood facing a man he'd missed more than he thought he would have._

...

"Sherlock." said Mycroft, with probably the most relieved sigh ever given.

"Come in brother." Sherlock motioned, and shut the door behind Mycroft.

A tear had formed in Mycroft's eye, he simply starred at Sherlock. It was him, the same man he remembered. Yet there was something different. He wiped his eyes and straightened his suit.

"Sherlock, you, what..." he tailed off, but Sherlock picked up the pieces.

"Well brother, I'm glad you worked it all out. I had to do this, to hide. Moriarty had trained killers on the people closest to me, I had to die. But, you know me, I couldn't let that happen. So being me, I found a way out."

"Why not come to me? By doing this you have hurt the ones you love"

"There was no other way. The media are all over me, and you and everyone. I couldn't risk anyone knowing, I had to disappear, completely."

"But you left clues for me."

"Yes brother, for the people I knew would still believe."

"Yes, well you're way to cocky to take your own life." He tried to smile "where is Richard Brooke?"

"In people's minds, Richard Brooke never existed; I thought you knew me better."

"Must be sure, so where is James Moriarty?"

"Dead, he killed himself. Turns out he was completely insane."

"The gun." he was beginning to understand now.

"Indeed."

...

The next morning, I felt quite depressed. I felt like something was going on, but I wasn't involved. Suddenly I realised I had spoken to know one for a week, other than on the case. I felt so upset, I decided to visit Mycroft. But first I would finish the Tyler Opel case. I had warrants for both homes, so I was ready to wrap up this case.

I pulled into the Munty's drive, noticing their car wasn't in the drive. After knocking several times and checking under the mat for a spare key, I pushed my way in. the door was pretty weak, so it opened easily. After a look around, I found nothing. But looking again at the pictures in the living room, I decided some of them were real. This meant money, lots of it. And probably cash. So that's where Tyler's money had been going. All I had to do was prove it.

Another clue came soon. In the shed in the back garden, was a poison kit. High grade stuff, and not for weeds or snails. I raced out the house, and to the car. Soon arriving at Tyler's home. Once inside, I noticed there were several pictures of one house. I went to the study and flicked through some paperwork. Yes, Tyler had a house just outside of London, near the Thames. Putting the siren on the car, I headed out.

The house was set away from any roads or other houses. It was a nice place. But something wasn't right. The front door lay slightly open. I knocked, shouted, then entered. Inside, it was freezing cold. I didn't have to wait long before I found the body. Dry and hard, but still recognisable. I called the police, and waited. I looked around, noting that Tyler's bag lay emptied on the floor. Purse missing. A muddy footprint on the floor near it. Well, the cops could deal with the rest. I told them my story and left, eager to tell someone of my work. I finally had my mind off Sherlock.

When I got to the office, the door was half open. I walked in. I had expected Mycroft to be sitting at his desk, but he was nowhere to be seen. I turned to go, when a business card caught my eye. It lay on Mycroft's desk; it was Sarah Heatric's. But it wasn't. Nothing about The Times, just a phone number and email. The same phone number and email. But a different name. Selene Hentri. The email was real, the number wasn't. Sarah Heatric, Selene Hentri. I said it out loud.

"Sarah Heatric, Selene Hentri, SH, SH..." Of course! Then I looked up, a map. Points pinned in, and to the lowest point, was a note. Rybuckly hotel. Good enough for me. I bolted from the office.

...

_Looking out of the window, he saw the car pull in. two in one day, my friends are so clever, he thought, or was it me? _

"_Mycroft, get the door." _

"_What?"_

"_Open the door"_

_John came running up, looking relieved when he saw Mycroft. Then he came into view, and john dropped to his knees. _

"_I knew it, you're not...all this time..."_

"_We were right, john, nothing the papers say mean anything" said Mycroft._

"_I don't care, he's here, alive."_

"_Oh calm john, it's not really that surprising is it? You really expect me to kill myself?"_

"_Ok, ok. So what's this Sarah, Selene business?"_

"_I'm not really sure; I noticed her watching, left my email on my desk. Left the tie, clues. I have no idea who she is, or why she helped me. She thought she was clever, but obviously I used her. To get you."_

"_Well that's ruined the heart touching moment, hasn't it?" said a voice from the bedroom._


	6. Needing

I jumped at the voice, wondering how anyone could have got in. I looked hard, but couldn't find a figure in the gloom. We all looked at each other, each face as confused as mine. Although Sherlock's only lasted a minute, before he began to think. He ushered us all from view of the bedroom, and then called out.

"Who's there?"

"Depends which one of you is asking." She walked into the light.

"You." we all said.

"Yes, hello gentlemen."

"How did, who..." I trailed off, Sherlock picked up where I left.

"Who are you? Why have you been helping me?"

"You'd like the answers to that, wouldn't you," she smiled and turned to Mycroft "Come on Mycroft, you must know what's going on, although James Moriarty would say differently."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think?" she smirked at Mycroft.

"How could you know about everything?" asked Sherlock, looking interested now.

She didn't reply, just stared right back at Sherlock.

"Out with it, what do you want from us?"

"Uh uh, gotta go now boys." She walked straight out the front door.

"What just happened?" somewhere along the line I'd lost the plot completely.

"Sherlock, how did she know about me and you and Moriarty?"

"I don't know..." he had the look meaning he wasn't really listening.

"Sherlock!"

"Come on John, it's about time we went home," he grabbed his suitcase from the bedroom "After you brother."

Outside, a cloud of smoke and tires screeching, a black Mercedes came to the pavement in front of us. She was sat by the wheel, looking sexy indeed, I must say.

"Goodbye for now boys, I'll be back."

"Who are you!" we all yelled.

"The wind!" and she was gone, speeding into the distance in her Mercedes with no number plate.

Sherlock looked impressed, Mycroft sighed and headed for his car, and I smiled. He was back, that's all that mattered.

**Well that's it guys, hope you enjoyed it enough to review! Thinking of doing a series, thoughts? Thanks again, darkatdusk.**


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